Depression is a Motherfucker

As many of you know (since I’ve chosen to share about this in the past), I deal with some moderate to severe depression, to the point of being on meds and seeing a therapist weekly. I’d like to say I’m only suicidal at the worst of times, but unfortunately it’s not singular thoughts or moments, so much as it feels like I have a chatty passenger on a road trip; only instead of normal conversation, it’s a voice telling me to end myself in whatever way seems most convenient at the time. Kinda constantly.

Thanks to drugs and therapy, I’m able to ignore or at least tune out that voice most of the time, but sometimes a perfect storm type of situation happens and the voice goes from a dull whisper to an overwhelming roar that I can’t. shut. off. This past weekend was one of those times.

Saturday and Sunday were tough, but manageable. I chalked it up to just being extra tired from getting back to a day job schedule; and tried to distract myself as best as I could. Monday, though, I started to realize I couldn’t handle this occurrence in my own. The whole day at work was me trying to get things done and failing miserably, all the while that fucking passenger telling me to just shut my computer and take a dive out the window I sit near at work. For better or worse, the only thing stopping me was the thought that, “Hey, I’m only 4 stories up, which isn’t high enough to really finish the job.” Morbid I know, but at least it stopped me from giving in.

When I finally gave up on the day and headed out for the day, the voice decided to switch things up and taunt me to steer the car into oncoming traffic. Again, the only thought I could counter with was, “It’s rush hour, so I’m not really going fast enough to do more than hurt myself.” By the time I got to my therapist, I was a blubbering mess, and she listened wide-eyed and concerned as I relayed the events of the last few days.

Thankfully, she didn’t immediately send me to inpatient (which stresses me out even more, seeing that I’m a Type I Diabetic, and most nurses work off an antiquated idea of diabetes management ,not knowing what to do with an insulin pump) and instead put me on a few days of my wife keeping a close eye on me at home instead.

I’m through the worst of it now, and starting to feel like I can handle the outside world without just shutting down. I wish I could say the chatty passenger was gone, but really it’s just back to a whisper in the back of my head, rather than an overwhelming force. We’re gonna tweak some meds, keep a closer eye on things for the next few weeks, and hope that I stay on the upswing.

I don’t really have a happy ending for you; I’m mostly writing about this publicly because it’s something that’s not discussed enough in general. Everyone knows someone who deals with a form of mental illness, but there’s such a social stigma associated with it that people keep their struggles in the dark. In the spirit of “we’re all in this together”, I choose to be open about my struggles with mental illness to combat those negative associations in some small way.

If you’re feeling suicidal, or dealing with mental illness at all, get help. Talk to a friend or family member about what’s going on. If you’re not comfortable with that, call any one of the numbers listed here. However you do it, whatever way you’re most comfortable, get help. Things may seem hopeless now, but they won’t be that way at forever.